by Edith Nesbit
“It makes you braver,” said Kathleen suddenly. “At least I hope it’s me — but I expect it’s the coat. Anyhow, I’m glad it does. Because I do want to be brave. Oh, Princess!”
“Well?” said the Princess, gravely, but not unkindly, “what is it?”
Kathleen stood a moment, her hands twisting in each other and her eyes downcast. Then in an instant she had unbuttoned and pulled off her coat of pearly mail and thrown it at the Princess’s feet.
“I’ll do it without the coat,” she said, and drew a long breath.
The others looked on in silence, longing to help her, but knowing that no one could help her now but herself.
“It was me,” said Kathleen suddenly, and let go a deep breath of relief. “It was me that touched the sky and let in the water; and I am most frightfully sorry, and I know you’ll never forgive me. But-”
“Quick,” said the Princess, picking up the coat, “get into your armour; it’ll prevent your crying.” She hustled Kathleen into the coat and kept her arms round her. “Brave girl,” she whispered. “I’m glad you did it without the coat.” The other three thought it polite to turn away. “Of course,” the Princess added, “I knew — but you didn’t know I knew.”
“How did you know?” said Kathleen.
“By your eyes,” said the Princess, with one last hug; “they’re quite different now. Come, let us go to the gate and see if any of our Scouts are signalling.”
The two Lobster sentries presented claws as the Princess passed with her Staff through the narrow arch and on to the sandy plain of the sea-bottom. The children were astonished to find that they could see quite plain a long way through the water — as far as they could have seen in air, and the view was very like one kind of land view. First, the smooth flat sand dotted with copses of branching seaweed — then woods of taller tree-like weeds with rocks shelving up and up to a tall, rocky mountain. This mountain sent out a spur, then ran along beside the Mer-kingdom and joined the rock behind it; and it was along the narrow gorge so formed that the Under Folk were expected to advance. There were balls of seaweed floating in the air — at least, it really now had grown to seem like air, though, of course, it was water — but no signs of Scouts.
Suddenly the balls of seaweed drew together and the Princess murmured, “I thought so,” as they formed into orderly lines, sank to the ground, and remained motionless for a moment, while one ball of seaweed stood in front of them.
“It’s the Boy Scouts,” she said. “Your Reuben is giving them their orders.”
It seemed that she was right, for next moment the balls of seaweed drifted away in different directions, and the one who had stood before them drifted straight to the arch where the Princess and the children stood. It drifted in, pulled off its seaweed disguise, and was, in effect, Reuben.
“We’ve found out something more, your Highness,” he said, saluting the Princess. “The vanguard are to be Sea-horses; you know, not the little ones, but the great things they have in the depths.”
“No use our attacking the horses,” said the Princess. “They’re as hard as ice. Who rides them?”
“The First Dipsys,” said Reuben. “They’re the young Under Folk who want to cut a dash. They call them the Forlorn Hopers, for short.”
“Have they got armour?”
“No-that’s their swank. They’ve no armour but their natural scales. Those look thick enough, though. I say, Princess, I suppose we Sea-urchins are free to do exactly as we choose?”
“Yes,” said the Princess, “unless orders are given.
“Well, then — my idea is that the Lobsters are the fellows to tackle the Sea-horses. Hold on to their tails, see? They can’t hurt the Lobsters because they can’t get at their own tails.”
“But when the Lobsters let go?” said the Princess.
“The Lobsters wouldn’t let go till they had driven back the enemy,” said the Lobster Captain, saluting. “Your Highness, may I ask if you propose to take this Urchin’s advice?”
“Isn’t it good?” she asked.
“Yes, your Highness,” the Lobster Captain answered, “but it’s impertinent.”
“I am the best judge of that,” said the Princess gently; “remember that these are noble volunteers, who are fighting for us of their own free will.”
The Lobster saluted and was silent.
“I cannot send the Lobsters,” said the Princess, “we need them to protect the gate. But the Crabs-”
“Ah, Highness, let us go,” pleaded the Lobster Captain.
“The Crabs cannot keep the gate,” said the Princess kindly. “You know they are not narrow enough. Francis, will you be my aide-de-camp and take a message to the Queen?”
“May I go, too?” asked Mavis.
“Yes. But we must deliver a double assault. If the Crabs attack the Horses, who will deal with the riders?”
“I have an idea about that, too,” said Reuben. “If we could have some good heavy shoving regiment — and someone sharp to finish them off. The Sword-fish, perhaps?”
“You are a born general,” the Princess said, “but you don’t quite know our resources. The United Narwhals can do the shoving, as you call it — and their horns are sharp and heavy. Now” — she took a smooth white chalkstone from the sea-floor, and a ready Lobster brought her a sharpened haddock-bone. She wrote quickly, scratching the letters deep on the chalk; “Here,” she said, “take this to the Queen. You will find her at Headquarters at the Palace-yard. Tell her everything. I have only asked for the two regiments; you must explain the rest. I don’t suppose there’ll be any difficulty in getting through our lines, but, if there should be, the password is ‘Glory’ and the countersign is ‘or Death.’ And hurry, hurry, hurry for your lives!”
Never before had Mavis and Francis felt anything like the glow of excitement and importance which warmed them as they went up the long tunnel to take the message to the Queen.
“But where is the Palace?” Mavis said, and they stopped, looking at each other.
“I’ll show you, please,” said a little voice behind them. They turned quickly to find a small, spruce, gentlemanly Mackerel at their heels. “I’m one of the Guides,” it said. “I felt sure you’d need me. This way, sir, please,” and it led the way across the gardens in and out of the clumps of trees and between the seaweed hedges till they came to the Palace. Rows and rows of soldiers surrounded it, all waiting impatiently for the word of command that should send them to meet the enemies of their country.
“Glory,” said the gentlemanly Mackerel, as he passed the outposts.
“Or Death,” replied the sentinel Sea-bream.
The Queen was in the courtyard, in which the children had received their ovation — so short a time ago, and yet how long it seemed. Then the courtyard had been a scene of the calm and charming gaiety of a nation at peace; now it was full of the ardent, intense inactivity of waiting warriors. The Queen in her gleaming coral armour met them as the password opened a way to her through, the close-packed ranks of the soldiers. She took the stone and read it, and with true royal kindness she found time, even at such a moment, for a word of thanks to the messengers.
“See the Narwhals start,” she added, “and then back to your posts with all speed. Tell your commanding officer that so far the Book People have made no sign, but the golden gate is strongly defended by the King’s Own Cod — and-”
“I didn’t know there was a King,” said Francis.
The Queen looked stern, and the Mackerel guide jerked Francis’s magic coat-tail warningly and whispered “Hush!”
“The King,” said the Queen quietly, “is no more. He was lost at sea.”
When the splendid, steady column of Narwhals had marched off to its appointed place the children bowed to the Queen and went back to their posts.
“I’m sorry I said anything,” said Francis to the Mackerel, “but I didn’t know. Besides, how can a Mer-king be lost at sea?”
“Aren’t your Kings lost on land?” asked the Mac
kerel, “or if not kings, men quite as good? What about explorers?”
“I see,” said Mavis; “and doesn’t anyone know what has become of him?”
“No,” said the Mackerel; “he has been lost for a very long time. We fear the worst. If he were alive he would have come back. We think the Under Folk have him. They bewitch prisoners so that they forget who they are. Of course, there’s the antidote. Every uniform is made with a little antidote pocket just over the heart.” He put his fin inside his scales and produced a little golden case; just like a skate’s egg. “You’ve got them, too, of course,” he added. “If you are taken prisoner swallow the contents at once.”
“But if you forget who you are,” said Francis, “don’t you forget the antidote?”
“No charm,” the Mackerel assured him, “is strong enough to make one forget one’s countercharm.”
And now they were back at the Lobster-guarded gate. The Princess ran to meet them.
“What a time you’ve been,” she said. “Is all well? Have the Narwhals taken up their position?”
Satisfied on this point, she led the children up a way long and steep to a window in the wall whence they could look down on the ravine and see the advance of the foe. The Narwhals were halted about half-way up the ravine, where it widened to a sort of amphitheatre. Here, among the rocks, they lay in ambush, waiting for the advance of the foe.
“If it hadn’t been for you, Reuben,” said the Princess, as they leaned their elbows on the broad rocky ledge of the window, “they might easily have stormed the North Tower — we should not have been ready — all our strongest defences were massed on the south side. It was there they attacked last time, so the history-books tell us.”
And now a heavy, thundering sound, faint yet terrible, announced the approach of the enemy — and far away across the sea-plain something could be seen moving. A ball of seaweed seemed to drift up the ravine.
“A Sea-urchin gone to give the alarm,” said the Princess; “what splendid things Boy Scouts are. We didn’t have them in the last war. My dear father only invented them just before-” She paused and sighed. “Look,” she said.
The enemy’s heavy cavalry were moving in a solid mass towards Merland — the great Seahorses, twenty feet long, and their great riders, who must have been eight or ten feet high, came more and more quickly, heading to the ravine. The riders were the most terrible beings the children had ever seen. Clothed from head to feet in closely-fitting scales, with large heads, large ears, large mouths and blunt noses and large, blind-looking eyes, they sat each erect on his armoured steed, the long harpoons swaying lightly in their enormous hands.
The Sea-horses quickened their pace — and a noise like a hoarse trumpet rang out.
“They are sounding the charge,” said the Princess; and as she spoke the Under Folk charged at the ravine, in a determined, furious onrush.
“Oh, no one can stand up against that — they can’t,” said Cathay, in despair.
From the window they could see right down on to the amphitheatre, where the Narwhals were concealed.
On came the Sea Cavalry — so far unresisted — but as they neared the ambush bunches of seaweed drifted in the faces of the riders. They floundered and strove to push away the clinging stuff — and as they strove the Narwhals made their sortie-drove their weight against the riders and hurled them from their horses, and from the covers of the rocks the Crabs advanced with an incredible speed and caught the tails of the Sea-horses in their inexorable claws. The riders lay on the ground. The horses were rearing and prancing with fear and pain as the clouds of seaweed, each with a prickly Seaurchin in it, flung themselves against their faces. The riders stood up, fighting to the last; but the harpoons were no match for the Narwhal’s horns.
“Come away,” said the Princess.
Already the Sea-horses, urged by the enormous Crabs, were retreating in the wildest disorder, pursued by Narwhals and harassed by Sea-urchins.
The Princess and the children went back to the Lobster sentries.
“Repulsed,” said the Princess, “with heavy loss” — and the Lobsters cheered.
“How’s that, Princess?” said a ball of seaweed, uncurling itself at the gate and presenting the familiar features of Reuben.
“How is it?” she said,—”it is Victory. And we owe it to you. But you’re wounded?”
“Only a scratch,” said Reuben; “harpoon just missed me.”
“Oh, Reuben, you are a hero,” said Cathay.
“Get along, you silly,” he answered gracefully.
CHAPTER IX. THE BOOK PEOPLE
EVEN in the midst of war there are intervals for refreshments. Our own soldiers, no matter how fierce, must eat to live, and the same is the case with the submarine regiments. The Crustacean Brigade took advantage of the lull in hostilities which followed the defeat of the Sea-horses to march back to the Palace and have a meal. A very plain meal it was, too, and very different from the “Banquet of Ovations,” as Cathay pointed out afterwards. There were no prettily-spread tables decorated with bunches of seaweed, no plates or knives or forks. The food was passed round by hand, and there was one drinking-horn (a sea-cow’s horn) to every six soldiers. They all sat on the ground as you do at a picnic, and the Queen came and spoke a few hurried words to them when on her way to strengthen the defences of the golden gate. And, as I said, the food was plain. However, everyone had enough to eat, which was the main thing. Baskets of provisions were sent down to the Lobsters’ Guardroom.
“It is important,” said Princess Freia, “that our men should be on the spot in case they are needed, and the same with the dinner. I shall go down with the provisions and keep their hearts up.”
“Yes, dear, do,” said the Princess Maia; “but don’t do anything rash. No sorties now. You Lobsters are so terribly brave. But you know Mother said you weren’t to. Ah me! — war is a terrible thing! What a state the rivers will get into with all this water going on, and the winds all loose and doing as they like. It’s horrible to think about. It will take ages to get things straight again.”
(Her fears were only too well founded. All this happened last year — and you know what a wet summer that was.)
“I know, dear,” said Freia; “but I know now who broke the sky, and it is very, very sorry — so we won’t rub it in, will we?”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Maia, smiling kindly at the children, and went off to encourage her Lobsters.
“And now,” said Francis, when the meal was over, “what are we going to do next?”
“We can’t do anything but wait for news,” said the Princess. “Our Scouts will let us know soon enough. I only hope the Book People won’t attack us at the same time as the Under Folk. That’s always the danger.”
“How could they get in?” Mavis asked.
“Through the golden door,” said the Princess. “Of course they couldn’t do anything if we hadn’t read the books they’re in. That’s the worst of Education. We’ve all read such an awful lot, and that unlocks the books and they can come out if anyone calls them. Even our fish are intolerably well read — except the Porpoises, dear things, who never could read anything. That’s why the golden door is guarded by them, of course.”
“If not having read things is useful,” said Mavis, “we’ve read almost nothing. Couldn’t we help guard the door?”
“The very thing,” said the Princess joyously; “for you possess the only weapon that can be used against these people or against the authors who created them. If you can truthfully say to them, ‘I never heard of you,’ your words become a deadly sword that strikes at their most sensitive spot.”
“What spot?” asked Bernard. And the Princess answered, “Their vanity.”
So the little party went towards the golden door and found it behind a thick wall of Porpoises. Incessant cries came from beyond the gates, and to every cry they answered like one Porpoise, “We never heard of you. You can’t come in. You can’t come in. We never heard of you.�
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“We shan’t be any good here,” said Bernard, among the thick, rich voices of the Porpoises. “They can keep anyone back.”
“Yes,” said the Pripcess; “but if the Book Folk look through the gate and see that they’re only Porpoises their wounded vanity will heal, and they’ll come on as strongly as ever. Whereas if they did find human beings who have never heard of them the wounds ought to be mortal. As long as you are able truthfully to say that you don’t know them they can’t get in.”
“Reuben would be the person for this,” said Francis. “I don’t believe he’s read anything.”
“Well, we haven’t read much,” said Cathay comfortably; “at least, not about nasty people.”
“I wish I hadn’t,” sighed the Princess through the noise of the voices outside the gate. “I know them all. You hear that cold squeak? That’s Mrs Fairchild. And that short, sharp, barking sound — that’s Aunt Fortune. The sort of growl that goes on all the time is Mr Murdstone, and that icy voice is Rosamund’s mother — the one who was so hateful about the purple jar.”
“I’m afraid we know some of those,” said Mavis.
“Then be careful not to say you don’t. There are heaps you don’t know — John Knox and Machiavelli and Don Diego and Tippoo Sahib and Sally Brass and — I must go back. If anything should happen, fling your arms round the nearest Porpoise and trust to luck. These Book People can’t kill — they can only stupefy.”
“But how do you know them all?” Mavis asked. “Do they often attack you?”
“No, only when the sky falls. But they always howl outside the gate at the full moon.”
So saying she turned away and disappeared in the crowd of faithful Porpoises.
And outside the noise grew louder and the words more definite.
“I am Mrs Randolph. Let me in!”
“I am good Mrs Brown. Let me in!”
“I am Eric, or Little by Little. I will come in!”
“I am Elsie, or Like a Little Candle. Let me in — let me in!”
“I am Mrs Markham.”
“I am Mrs Squeers.”